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<title>You said love is enough, and I said love is just the start. by MistressofHappyEndings</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454850">You said love is enough, and I said love is just the start.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressofHappyEndings/pseuds/MistressofHappyEndings'>MistressofHappyEndings</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Poetry in Motion [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Foot Massage, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Rainy Days, Some angst, ambiguous timeline</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:00:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,640</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454850</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressofHappyEndings/pseuds/MistressofHappyEndings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Another rainy day filled with books for Joe and Booker.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Poetry in Motion [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923037</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>121</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You said love is enough, and I said love is just the start.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am working on Joe's claiming, but this one demanded to be written first.</p><p>I also wanted to say a very heartfelt thank you to everyone who's left comments and kudos, bookmarks and hits, on my other fics.  It means quite a bit to this writer and inspires the muse.  You are all the best!</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The quiet patter of the autumn rain against the windows gently envelopes the two men stretched out on the large couch.  Joe and Booker had decided after lunch to spend the afternoon reading together.  Joe has been wanting to finish <i>Don Quixote</i> for a while now, and this was the perfect opportunity.  Nile had given Booker a first edition of <i>A Tale of Two Cities</i> on her last visit, and it had been a toss up as to who was more pleased by the gift, her or Booker.  Both men had settled on opposite ends of the couch, backs propped by pillows, feet and legs companionably entangled, hot beverages settled on the coffee table beside them.
</p><p>That had been a few hours ago, and Joe sighs as he finishes the last page of his book.  He grimaces as little as he takes the final few sips of his tea.  It has long since gone cold, caught up as he had been in Cervantes’ story, but he is too comfortable and lazy to get up for a new cup.  Instead, he lets his eyes wander to his reading companion.  He smiles at the picture of contentment the other man makes.  Booker seems oblivious to his scrutiny, so Joe takes his time with his perusal.
</p><p>Today is the three year anniversary of the day that Booker had come to his family and told them about Copley and Merrick.  Joe wonders if Booker is aware of that or if today is just another day for him.  The younger immortal has come such a long way since then.  He still has bad days where he sometimes disappears, coming home hours later to silently curl himself into his lovers’ welcoming embrace.  Then there are the brutal days where he can’t get out of bed or even speak to them.  Fortunately, those days are starting to come fewer and farther in between.  The therapist had warned them all that depression such as Booker’s was a lifelong affliction, and he would always have to deal with it in some form or another.  Joe and Nicky – and Andy, Quynh, and Nile – had all vowed that he would never have to deal with it alone.
</p><p>Booker might never be completely free of the pain, or the memories, but he smiles more than he ever has, and the dark circles under his eyes are less pronounced. He’s given up all alcohol, eats better, sleeps better now that Quynh has been rescued and no longer haunted his dreams.  While Joe has always thought he was stunningly gorgeous, now he is just... well, Joe finds it hard to describe in words.  He is aware of the irony in that.  He has spent hours trying to capture his beauty on paper instead, but, just like with Nicky, he finds his efforts to be a poor substitute for the real thing, no matter how his lovers try to tell him otherwise.
</p><p>Eventually, looking isn’t enough for the older immortal.  He doesn’t want to interrupt Booker, but the need to touch him is suddenly overwhelming.  He looks down at the feet settled in his lap and decides a foot massage will work nicely.  Carefully lifting first one foot then the other, Joe  slowly strips off Booker’s thick, woolen socks, tossing them to the floor.  Booker flexes his toes, but otherwise doesn’t react.  
</p><p>Joe leans back enough to fumble for the drawer on the end table.  As he knew there would be, there is a half-empty bottle of oil there.  There are similar bottles stashed all over the house, in a variety of locations.  Joe smirks a little to himself.  Andy could say what she will about their “adolescent hormones,” but it certainly never hurt to be prepared when the need to make love to one’s better halves struck.
</p><p>Flipping the top open, he pours some oil into his hand then sets the bottle aside.  He rubs his hands together to warm them then takes one foot and begins to massage the sole with his thumbs, at times pressing deeply, at others merely stroking.  His fingers trace the lines of the bones on the top of the foot, a feather-light touch that makes Booker shiver, though the younger man doesn’t raise his gaze from his book.  Joe moves to the other foot and repeats his motions, working to relax the muscles, then lingering to savor the feel of warm skin.
</p><p>He pushes his hands under the cuffs of Booker’s jeans and moves to his calves, massaging the strong muscles there with his palms, working them until there was not the slightest bit of tension left. Then his touch alters, becoming gentle, as he caresses Booker's ankle and sweeps his fingertips up the insides of his calves, the tops of his shins, as far as the restrictive cloth would allow.  The strokes become meditative, and Joe finds himself become lost in the rhythm of the gentle touches.
</p><p>Booker makes a slight noise from his end of the couch, a soft noise.  It draws Joe out of his near trance-like state.  He looks up to find Booker has dropped his book to his chest and is watching him with eyes dark with love and desire.  Once he has Joe’s attention, he reaches out both hands to the older man.  There is no way Joe can resist that unspoken plea.  Removing his hands from Booker’s pant legs, he slides up the couch, Booker spreading his legs to accommodate his body between them.  He props his elbows on the armrest on either side of Booker’s head.
</p><p>Joe cups Booker’s face, palms warm on Booker’s jaw, leaning down to rest his forehead against the prone man’s. They stayed like that for one breath, two, and then Booker shifts just slightly, just enough to tip his chin up, just enough to touch his lips to Joe’s. Eyes closed, breath stalled, he stays like that a moment longer, Joe’s thumb brushing over his cheek.  The spine of Dicken’s classic digs into Joe’s sternum as he lowers more of his body against Booker’s, but he ignores it in favor of deepening the kiss.  Booker matches him kiss for kiss, hands moving restlessly over any part of Joe he can reach.
</p><p>As Joe’s mouth slips down to nip at Booker’s neck, his pulse tapping in a fast, steady staccato against the flat of his tongue, he is suddenly reminded of his earlier thoughts.  Three years ago, this precious beat had almost been lost to him, to him and Nicky and their sisters, forever.  If Booker hadn’t been as strong as he is, as courageous, he would have traded his life away to find the peace he desperately craved.  And it would have been their fault, because they had not seen how much their Bastien was hurting.  A desperate need seizes Joe to feel the proof of that life as close as is humanly possible, and he scrambles to remove all barriers between himself and his lover.
</p><p>Joe rears back far enough to carefully move the book between them to the safety of the coffee table.  He then swiftly unbuttons the front of Booker’s shirt, spreading apart the folds until he can place his hand over his lover’s heart.  He closes his eyes against a sudden surge of tears as he feels the even beat against his palm.  Booker is here, he is safe, he has stayed even when it was so hard for him to do so.  Joe hadn’t thought he could love this man any more that he already did, but the strength and depth of the feeling in his soul right now is proving him wrong.
</p><p>“<i>Merci, cher Bastien, mon plaisir quotidien, merci.</i>”
</p><p>There is confusion in Booker’s voice, confusion and concern, at the abrupt change in mood as he asks, “For what, <i>mon amour</i>?”
</p><p>Joe shakes his head, for once unable to articulate the emotions storming in his heart.  He pushes his arms under Booker’s arms, curving his hands over the caps of his shoulders, and pulls himself closer to the man beneath him.  Booker's chest moved against Joe's with every breath, the rhythm in perfect harmony with the soft puffs of breath against Joe’s temple.
</p><p> “Please, <i>hayati</i>, please,” he pleads softly, for what, he is not certain, just that Booker is the only one who can provide it.
</p><p>“Anything.” Booker’s reply is swift and full of worry.  “Joe, tell me what you need, and it’s yours.”
</p><p>Joe rubs his face against the soft hair on Booker’s chest and shimmies down until he could lay his head directly over the other man’s heart.  The steady thump of the life-giving organ reverberating against his ears settles a small portion of his earlier panic, but he is not ready to speak about it yet.  His arms tighten just that much more around the other man, anchoring him firmly to his own body.  He is never letting him go.
</p><p>“Just this, beloved,” he chokes out. “This is all I need.  <i>You</i> are all I need.”
</p><p>One warm, broad hand cups the back of his neck while the other draws long, comforting sweeps up and down his back.  Joe feels the questions Booker wants to ask in the tension of the muscles under his cheek, but then the younger man relaxes fully under him and shifts just enough to get comfortable.  A light, lingering kiss is pressed to the top of his head in a silent kind of benediction.
</p><p>“All right, Joe,” Booker murmurs against the dark curls.  He tugs at the blanket on the back of the couch and tucks it around them both as best he can in the position they’re in, cocooning them together in its soft, fleecy protection against the outside world.  “I’m here, <i>mon couer</i>.  I’m not going anywhere, but if you need anything else, please tell me.  I’m right here.”</p>
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